


Nothin'

by helvel



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, On the Run, the first time in fanfic history when the characters rent a hotel room and there's actually two beds, they still do it though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 12:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18094406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvel/pseuds/helvel
Summary: “A room, please.”The motel clerk’s gaze moves past Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur glances back. Outside, John is leaning against the car door, a long, lean silhouette against the lights of the parking lot, slowly raising a cigarette to his lips.“For the night, or for the hour?” the clerk asks.





	Nothin'

Three days on the run, three days at the wheel - taking backroads, keeping a low profile, putting distance between them and Blackwater – and Arthur’s had just about enough of it. He’s sick to death of listening to John snore in the passenger seat, his back is killing him, and there’s a gritty layer of dirt and smoke against his skin that needs more than a change of clothes to get it off. He needs a break. So when the blue speck of the  _Motel Paradise_  sign appears against the night sky in the distance, Arthur turns off the highway.

“We’re stopping here,” he says.

John doesn’t respond. He’s dozed off again, head against the window. It’s not until the car stops in the motel parking lot that he jerks awake.

“Huh?” he mumbles, dazed. “Where are we?”

“Paradise,” Arthur says. With chipped stucco siding and bars over the windows,  _Motel Paradise_  is far from its namesake, but right now Arthur is willing to put up with just about anything for a wash and a bed to stretch out his legs, even if sleep isn’t likely to follow. “We’re spending the night.”

John glances over at him for a long moment. “We should call Dutch,” he says.

Arthur snorts. “Call him, then,” he says, and leaves John in the car, because he’s got nothing to say to Dutch right now.

Even the parking lot smells faintly of bleach, and the smell only intensifies as Arthur enters the motel lobby. The old clerk behind the desk peers up at him through murky glasses, until Arthur says, awkward, “A room, please.”

The clerk’s gaze moves past Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur glances back. Outside, John is leaning against the car door, a long, lean silhouette against the lights of the parking lot, slowly raising a cigarette to his lips.

“For the night, or for the hour?” the clerk asks.

 _Jesus._  Arthur should have guessed this would be that kind of place. “For the night,” he says.

The clerk signs out room seven to Tacitus Kilgore, paid in cash in full. There’s an extra charge for towels, because of course there is, and Arthur leaves the lobby with the room key and the towels tucked under his arm.

John’s still leaning against the car, but his chin is down against his chest, half asleep again. He’s hit the inevitable crash after everything that happened in the past few days, and hit it hard. God, Arthur envies him. He’d give anything for just a few minutes of shut eye at this point, but sleep doesn’t come when he closes his eyes, and it’s never long before he’s smelling smoke, feeling the boat lurch beneath him, re-living that moment at Blackwater when it all went wrong.

John jolts awake again when Arthur pulls the car door open. “ _Goddammit,_ ” he mumbles as he picks up his dropped cigarette. Arthur pulls their bags from the backseat of the car, shoving John’s at his chest.

“You talk to Dutch?” Arthur asks.

The cherry on John’s cigarette flares bright for a moment as he stares back at Arthur.

“No,” he says.

John might be an idiot, but he’s not that much of an idiot, and Arthur is at least grateful for that.

The outline of grime is all that remains where a number seven had once been on the motel room door. Arthur slides the key into the lock – or tries to, but his hands are shaking again, and the key just jangles uselessly until John’s hand closes over his own. Arthur presses his eyes shut, but he’s exhausted enough not to protest. He just lets John guide his numb fingers to unlock the door, and then shuffles into the room after him.

John wastes no time falling face-first onto the closest of the two twin beds. Arthur’s skin crawls imagining how filthy the cigarette-burned duvet is, and what the hourly motel customers have done on top of it, but it’s not like any part of the wood-paneled room is clean, despite the still-present bleach smell.

“Don’t smoke in the bed,” he grumbles at John, who’s got his eyes closed and a cigarette still smoldering between his lips. Another cigarette burn will be nothing on the ruined duvet, but Arthur would never forgive John for burning the place down before he had a chance to take a shower. He plucks the cigarette from John’s lips and ashes it in the plastic tray on the nightstand.

John doesn’t stir. He’s out cold again. Arthur groans and drags a hand down his face, grit and grease collecting beneath his fingers. Here he is, jealous of John-fucking-Marston.

Funny how some things never really change.

The bleach smell is strongest in the bathroom, but it can’t be any worse than whatever it’s covering up, and Arthur doesn’t have enough energy left to wonder about it as he peels off his clothes and steps beneath the shower spray. He pushes his hair back, letting rivulets of water drip down his face. God, he needed this. Layers of grime wash away down the drain, and he lingers beneath the spray for far longer than necessary, which has the added benefit of leaving the mirror entirely fogged over when he finally steps out of the shower – he really doesn’t think he could stand the sight of his ugly mug staring back at him right now.

A cloud of steam follows him out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and he sorts through the tangle of clothes in his bag. It’s impossible to tell what’s clean – everything smells like the acrid smoke from Blackwater. At this point, Arthur wonders if that smell will be forever stuck to the inside of his nose. He sniffs a shirt, then tosses it away, disgusted.

There’s a huff of laughter from John’s bed.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur demands.

John has barely moved from where he collapsed, other than to turn his head to face Arthur. He chuckles again.

“Nothin’,” he says sleepily. “Just your face.”

“You’ve never grown out of being a mouthy brat, huh?”

Grinning, John turns his face back into the duvet.

Arthur scowls. “I’m going to get something to eat,” he says. “…  _Marston._ ”

“What?”

“I said I’m going out. You’re on your own for a bit. Better stay alert.”

John doesn’t move. Arthur kicks the bed.

“ _What?_ ” John says, annoyed this time.

“You’re not this stupid, are you? Get up. Take a shower or something. Lord knows you need it.”

John still doesn’t move. Whatever, the kid can look after himself. He’s proven that much at least, even if it’s dumb luck on his side most of the time.

Arthur finishes dressing and grabs the room key from the TV stand. He’s almost at the door when he hears John call, “ _Arthur._ ”

Arthur pauses, turns, waits for him to speak. Nothing. He’s sure that John has fallen back asleep, before there’s a drowsy, “Bring me back a milkshake.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and shuts the door.

The restaurant across the parking lot is lit up with neon signs in the same shade of blue as everything else at  _Motel Paradise_. Inside, a waitress takes his order with a vacant stare. The burger she brings him is barely a step up from the garbage he’s been eating the past few days, but he’s tired enough that everything tastes like cardboard anyway. No point in hoping this would be any different.

Cars passing on the highway are no more than blurs of light in the darkness as Arthur chews. In just a few hours, he and John will be back out there, on the road again. Hours in the car, checking every five minutes that they’re not being followed. It’ll be another two days driving, at least, until they reach the safehouse Dutch promised them.

 _Or_ …

The churn of Arthur’s stomach has nothing to do with the greasy burger he’s eating.  _Or,_ they keep going, hit the border. Leave Dutch to risk his own neck from now on. Forget all the shit that always seems to blow up in their faces, and just take John with him and go.

Arthur snorts. Poor John, stuck with a miserable old bastard like Arthur. What would they do across the border, anyway? Start an avocado farm? It would never happen, Arthur knows he’d never move on like that. This is his lot in life and he’s not good for much else. All that he’s done – hell, it wouldn’t be right for someone like him to get anything as nice as a quiet life and a good night’s sleep.

Cars pass on the highway. Arthur’s eyes ache.

It would be easy to go back to the room and tell John he forgot. Most likely John is still passed out anyway, dead to the world. Arthur gives in, though, and orders a vanilla milkshake to go.

The bed is empty and the shower is running when he gets back to the room. He sets the milkshake on the nightstand and pulls back the frayed duvet on his own bed to lay down, bedsprings creaking in protest.

Nothing’s going to happen, he knows. Sleep isn’t going to come. He watches the woodgrain on the wall for a while, then rolls over and watches condensation run down the side of the milkshake cup.

At last, Arthur sits up and drags his hands down his face. He’s so, so tired, but every inch of his body is so tightly strung that he can’t find rest.

He needs a cigarette, is what he needs. He’s out, but John must have some. Arthur crosses the room to John’s bag and pulls it open. 

The cigarettes are right there, the cheap brand John always smokes, but Arthur’s hands are still shaking too much to grab them properly. They slip from his fingers and slide down the side of the bag among John’s clothes.

Arthur doesn’t reach after them. He just breathes. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to all of John’s clothes, but it’s just that – cigarette smoke, and it’s the first time in days that Arthur can smell something other than bleach or the acrid burn of Blackwater.

He breathes in. Cigarette smoke and  _John,_  which may as well be one scent for as often as Arthur has breathed them in together. It’s like having his nose pressed against John’s shoulder, high on a job gone well, laughing as John’s hands work open the front of his jeans. It’s like pushing John up against that shed behind Shady Belle, arm across his chest, watching that smug grin become soft and overwhelmed as he slides a hand up John’s shirt.

It’s there in the bag – that same red shirt, worn and familiar. Arthur lifts it to his nose. It’s like being right back in those days, happy, like they haven’t been in so long. There hasn’t been much to celebrate lately.

And now things are so bad, burnt out and running for their lives, that sniffing John’s dirty laundry is the best he’s felt in days.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He’d heard the door open, heard John coming out of the bathroom. He’s too exhausted to pretend it’s anything other than what it is, though. When he turns to John’s half bewildered, half amused look, he repeats John’s earlier excuse:

“Nothin’.”

John approaches. His skin is pink from the shower, towel slung low around his hips. “Don’t look like nothin’,” he says. Arthur watches him, face still buried in the shirt, but he follows when John touches his chin and guides his head up to meet John’s gaze.

Arthur realizes then that sleep does nothing for the exhaustion – John still looks every bit as burnt out as Arthur feels, but he’s got that smug grin on his face as he guides Arthur forward.

There’s no scent to him through the towel, scrubbed clean in the shower, but Arthur noses along the side of his soft cock. He usually wouldn’t go so easy, if he had any fight left in him, but instead he just rubs his cheek against the hardening bulge beneath the towel.

“Yeah – that’s it,” John encourages.

His hand is still on Arthur’s jaw, gently scraping against the stubble there, soothing. The other hand pushes away the towel and lets it fall to the floor.

“Open,” John says. Arthur, exhausted, has already done so.

The fluid at the tip of John’s cock is the first thing Arthur tastes in days. Something between a moan and a sigh slips past his lips as John’s cock rests against his tongue. John sighs too. He presses forward, cock sliding deeper, and Arthur widens his jaw to take it.

He should lift his hands, he thinks, rest them against John’s narrow hips, but he doesn’t. He just exists there, John’s blunt nails scraping over his jaw as he guides his cock in and out of Arthur’s mouth, never quite deep enough that Arthur has to worry about gagging. In this moment, Arthur doesn’t have to worry about anything.

That hitch in John’s breath is familiar. Arthur’s jaw creaks as John grips him tighter, then John is trembling, back arching, and he lets out a hoarse cry as his cock twitches and empties over Arthur’s tongue.

Arthur does gag this time, jerking back with a cough as come hits the back of his throat. John pants above him and gives a little half-chuckle as Arthur wheezes. It makes Arthur feel, feel _something,_  for the first time in days - that familiar and irrepressible urge to put John back in his damned place when he gets too uppity.

Arthur stands and crowds into John’s space while John wobbles back on orgasm-weak legs. Arthur steadies him by taking a fistful of John’s wet hair and yanking his head back to press their mouths together.

John struggles – at the pain, at the taste of his own bitter come, who knows – but it dissolves into a moan that reverberates against Arthur’s teeth. He pushes his sticky tongue between John’s lips.

Somehow Arthur’s dick isn’t feeling any of the exhaustion that the rest of his body is, already hard and growing harder as John clumsily slides his zipper down. Arthur groans. A hand slides into his jeans, wraps around his cock. A boney thumb traces the seam where the foreskin has slid back from the head.

Arthur has no patience for a slow tease right now. He thrusts forward with a growl, and John, thankfully, gets the idea.

Firm, and warm, with an upwards twist that’s just what Arthur likes. He’s coiled like a spring, tension in every inch of him, and John’s hand on him feels so good, so perfect that he doesn’t bother holding back – just sinks his teeth into John’s lower lip and spills over his bare stomach.

He sags forward, and John grunts under the weight. His knees don’t quite buckle, but he takes a step back, easing them down onto the bed with Arthur half on top of him.

Their mingled breaths taste a bit too much like John’s come for Arthur’s liking, but moving seems near impossible right now.  

“You’re kind of heavy, y’know,” John grunts beneath him.

“Huh,” Arthur mutters. His bones have turned to jelly, and his eyes flutter with… sleep?

He rolls off John onto the cigarette-burned duvet. Beside him, John groans and wipes a hand over the splatter of Arthur’s come on his belly.

“You got it in my chest hair,” he complains.

“You got it in my mouth,” Arthur complains back, dragging his hand across his lips as if that could somehow get rid of the taste. He reaches for the milkshake on the nightstand, sitting in a pool of condensation. It’s mostly liquid by now, but the sweet vanilla dulls the bitterness a bit.

A second later, John snatches the milkshake from him.

“That’s mine,” he says.

“I paid for it.”

John ignores him and takes a sip.

Arthur’s eyelids are heavy as he watches John plod across the room to his bag. It’s not a bad sight, naked as John is, and Arthur wants to make a jibe about how much better John looks with clean hair, but the words don’t come. He just watches John get dressed, in the red shirt Arthur had dropped on the floor, and pull out the pack of cigarettes that Arthur didn’t quite get to. John sets them on the nightstand, and sits on the bed that was supposed to be Arthur’s.

“I’ll take first watch,” John says.

Arthur sits up to protest – or tries to. Exhaustion has well and truly caught up to him, and finally, sleep doesn’t seem so far away. “I’ll take it,” he mutters, “Just need to rest my eyes for a few minutes.”

John snorts. “Yeah, right. Rest ‘em, then.”

“I mean it,” Arthur argues.

“Okay,” John agrees, “Just a few minutes, then.” He grabs the TV remote from the nightstand and settles back against the headboard. Like he’s ready to stay there for a few hours, and ignore anything Arthur said about the watch.

Light and color from the TV screen dancing over John’s face is the last thing Arthur sees before he finally dozes off for the night, nothin’ on his mind.


End file.
